


How Things Change

by Iolre



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Sobriety, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 20:03:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some are given a harder road to travel than others. Sometimes one just needs a little extra support, over a long period of time, before they can make it out of the other side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Things Change

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of this prompt: For several years, Lestrade was always there when Sherlock comes down from a high. The pained look he saw on Lestrade's face every time this happened made Sherlock went into rehab. One day he had a relapse in 221B. John was there after but Lestrade wasn't and something about that felt very wrong to Sherlock.
> 
> You can prompt more from me [here!](http://minorsherlockprompts.tumblr.com)

The first time had been a game. Sherlock remembered it vividly, remembered the casual, mocking tone as Victor said “You’re not - scared, are you?” Sherlock was anything but scared. He knew the risks, knew the high likelihood of addiction. But that was for normal people, and Sherlock was anything but normal. It would be a thin line, yes, but it was one that Sherlock didn’t really care if he tumbled over or not. Life was boring. He was stagnating.

This was new. Exciting.

A challenge he hadn’t conquered yet.

He slid the syringe into a vein on his arm, ignoring the slight prick of pain, and depressed the plunger. It had taken a few seconds, long enough for him to feel skeptical, when it hit him. He flew, he soared, and suddenly everything was fantastic. Thoughts slid through his mind, deductions coming instantaneously, but it was all okay. He didn’t process them, didn’t hold them, didn’t allow what he saw to clutter his already overtaxed brain.

Sherlock had had the best of intentions. Just once, he had told himself. Just an experiment. But quickly he became addicted to the euphoria. To the way nothing bothered him while the drug was flowing through his veins. The way that, while the deductions, what he noticed, increased, he managed the flow, let it flow in and out, not retaining, just examining. Honing his craft while not increasing the stress on his mind. To Sherlock, it was a win-win.

He still thought that way when he was kicked out of Uni, a semester from graduation, for refusing to show up. The few times he did show up, he was high as a kite, processing everything and retaining nothing. A few small nuggets of information survived long enough to be stored away - biology and chemistry were fascinating, whether he was high or not. Sherlock didn’t care. He slid into the shadows, evading his brother’s clutches and getting his hands on cocaine no matter what he had to do. His body was a small price to pay if it allowed him to acquire what he so desperately needed. Besides, if he was high, he didn’t even notice. Didn’t care.

A year later, he accidentally stumbled onto a crime scene. The information was amazing, the way it flowed through his euphoria-laden mind. The way it clicked, the way everything made sense. Sherlock jabbered at the DI, a tall, silver-haired man who looked like he carried all of the world’s problems, until he listened, until he followed Sherlock’s instructions. Then he followed him home, discovered his wife, discovered his secret, what he was hiding. Sherlock said nothing, but inwardly, he was fascinated by this man, this contradiction.

Stalwart defender of the law by day. Addict by night.

He was different, though. Not an IV user, like Sherlock. Snorted. Occasionally. Not regularly. A distant part of Sherlock pointed out that he was better. More normal. Because less than six months after Sherlock became aware of his addiction, Lestrade quit.

Not that he was able to avoid noticing. It seemed this man - Lestrade, his name was - showed up wherever Sherlock came down from a high. Whether it was a crime scene. The side of a road. An abandoned flat. Finally he got a bed sit. It was a year after he had first helped Lestrade, and it was a shitty little place, barely held together, but Sherlock coveted it, coveted the space to hold some basic science equipment, to entertain him, distract him if he was coming down with no access to a new high.

He was there, watching, when Lestrade’s wife shouted at him and left. All the signs were there, that she would never be back. Sherlock had taken to following Lestrade around. From a distance, always a distance. A few weeks later, when Lestrade was out working, Sherlock broke in. Snooped around. Didn’t take much - there wasn’t much worth taking - but he what he did take was small enough to fit inside his dingy coat pocket.

It was a small picture of a smiling Lestrade, happy and relaxed. Sherlock liked it. Didn’t know why, but he took it with him everywhere. Touched it, just with the tip of his fingers, when he was coming down, so he knew it was there. It was a lonely existence, that of a chronic drug addict. He refused to admit it, but he wanted someone he could touch, could kiss, could want, could need. Someone that wanted him back. And there was no one.

Something changed, the third time he was brave enough to make his presence known. The third time he showed up on a crime scene. There was something in Lestrade’s eyes when he took in Sherlock’s figure, the way his lips tightened, something shadowy lurking in his eyes. That day, that night, Lestrade asked him if he had a place to stay. If he had a home. Sherlock said no, bit his lip - the perfect picture of concern, of worry - regret. The emotions he knew how to best prey upon. So Lestrade took him home. Offered him the sofa. A place to stay. A home.

Sherlock accepted. Anything was better than his bedsit, although it really wasn’t bad when he was too high to care. He spent most of the time on the couch, when he wasn’t out getting drugs so he could get high and not have to move. Lestrade left him there. Placed tea and bread on the coffee table, sometimes something more substantial, on the rare time that he thought Sherlock might tolerate it.

Sometimes Sherlock would go on binges, take the drug endlessly for days, high as a kite until he had to come down. And what a fall it was. Apathy. Lethargy. Fatigue. Irritability. Sherlock broke half of Lestrade’s dishes, not that he was counting. But the DI was there. Watching. Waiting. It was his face that haunted Sherlock’s dreams, whether high or low. Silver hair, dark brown eyes. Concerned. Caring. Tanned, rugged face. It was there every time.

It took two years of this before Lestrade made a deal. Told Sherlock if he got clean, if he stayed clean, he would let him near crime scenes. He would get to do what he wanted to do. Something interesting. Something that dulled the apathy of normal functioning, made boring, normal life more interesting .Nearly invigorating.

Sherlock agreed.

It took him another year to get clean. A year of apathy, fatigue, vivid, terrifying nightmares that often woke Lestrade up in the middle of the night because Sherlock was screaming, screaming until his voice went hoarse, until he curled up against the sofa, clenched his fists so tightly that his nails cut crescents into the skin. Lestrade would sit him up, gently clean his wounds, bandage them. Stay out in the kitchen, where Sherlock could see him, until he fell back asleep.

Sometimes Sherlock would relapse, would fall apart, give up, just for a bit. He finally ripped up the photo in his pocket, unable to stand it, what it represented. Lestrade’s acceptance. His caring. Sherlock deserved none of it. He didn’t want it. The photo fell to the ground in small pieces, never to be repaired. Never to be seen again. Sherlock didn’t go back to Lestrade’s for a week. Didn’t want to be seen like he was, an addict.

But Lestrade found him. Would smile, weary and warm, offer Sherlock his hand, no matter what he looked like. Tell him he was going to take him home. Keep him safe. As much as Sherlock hated him for the offer, hated him for the kindness - he said yes. He followed. He was weak, after all.

It was another year before he was clean. This time, he moved out for good. Moved into 221B. Tried to maintain a roommate, even while working with Lestrade. It never worked. They came, they went. Mycroft’s interference, Sherlock suspected, but he had no proof. One night, about three months after he had moved out - it was a bad night. It had been a bad case. A child murder. Abused by her father. Open-and-shut, despite appearing tricky at first. It was something he knew Mycroft would have termed a ‘danger night’.

When Sherlock had arrived home, back in 221B, there was an envelope on the table. It had Lestrade’s handwriting, and Sherlock opened it warily. Inside were photographs, three of them. High quality - had he paid to have them printed just for him? Sherlock moved about the large flat by himself, ignoring them, as long as he could. They didn’t mater.

That night, Sherlock slept with Lestrade’s photo by his bed. It was the best he had slept in a long time.

Three weeks later, John Watson came into his life. For a while, Sherlock thought he was happy. It was a facsimile, at least. He ate. Sometimes. Slept occasionally. Worked with Lestrade on cases. Got to see him, got to listen to him. Soaked in his presence. It was too much and not enough at the same time. The cases were interesting. Mostly. Some were boring, and those he made Lestrade figure out on his own. Sometimes, when things were increasingly boring, he went on the less-interesting cases anyway, just to see Lestrade. Only if he was there. It soothed him, sometimes, when he was feeling restless.

It was not long after the Moriarty case. Not long after almost getting killed. After everything almost ended.

Sherlock took the syringe, inserted it into a vein, and depressed the plunger, sinking back into the euphoria, the careless feeling that came along with the cocaine. He couldn’t handle it anymore. Didn’t want to deal with it. The syringe, the drugs - those were a way of making it all go away. And he was tired.

When he woke up, this time it was John looking at him, John concerned, John worried. It felt strange. Different. Not good. Sherlock felt empty. There was something missing. He didn’t dose again. Once was enough, when he came down, felt the apathy. Felt nothing. It was worse than it had been, back when he had been a regular user. It was wrong.

There was a slight knock on the door and John stood, went to answer it. Sherlock ignored them, closed his eyes, tried to sleep. After functioning as an insomniac for so long with his work on cases, his body had forgotten how to sleep through the ‘down’ side of the cocaine. He grimaced.

“Hello.” Lestrade’s voice cut through Sherlock’s thoughts, through his attempts to ignore the rest of the world, and Sherlock’s eyes flew open. John was gone, and Lestrade was there, sitting on a chair next to the sofa, watching, kind eyes focused on Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat. He wanted to tell Lestrade to go away. Wanted to keep him. Wanted to grab onto him, hold him, and never let go. Instead he closed his eyes, scowled, and fought to stay still, to not react. Not show that Lestrade was his weakness. He never knew who would be watching. Who would be keeping an eye on them, monitoring his behavior.

A warm, rugged hand cupped the side of his face, and there were lips on his forehead. “It’s alright,” Lestrade murmured, thumb smoothing across Sherlock’s cheekbones. “It’s okay.”

“I know that,” Sherlock snapped, shifting, although he was careful to not dislodge Lestrade’s hand. He didn’t really want to drive him off. He wanted him to stay. It scared him. Emotions, feelings - they were not his area. He didn’t understand them. That was why he had used the cocaine. He had grown to ignore everything, learned how not to feel. Now he just ignored them until he had no other choice.

“John called me,” Lestrade continued, and Sherlock opened an eye. “You were asking for me.”

“No I wasn’t.” Sherlock scowled at the very idea of being completely dependent on someone else. He often had poor recall while high, but he was certain that something like that would not have escaped him.

“Alright,” Lestrade agreed, and he shifted closer, eyes tender in a way that made Sherlock’s heart speed up, made him feel warm, nervous, shy.

Sherlock dared shift his head, dared meet Lestrade’s eyes, and what he saw there both scared and warmed him. He inhaled sharply, hoped, wished. Lestrade’s hand slid into his hair, cupped his head, lifted, and their lips met. It was a slow kiss, a clumsy one, too much teeth and not enough pressure for Sherlock’s liking. Lestrade let out a soft noise, a slight moan, and shifted positions, allowing the kiss to change, to deepen.

He felt like he was on fire, like the world was burning, like he was being engulfed by what was forming between them. Instead, when they parted, he opened his eyes, cheeks flushed, pupils dilated, and met Lestrade’s gaze, seeing all of this thoughts, all of his emotions, reflected back at him. Lestrade was safety and security, warmth and love, and Sherlock wanted it. He curled a hand in the fabric of Lestrade’s shirt, pulling him close, lips touching his ear, midair. “Stay.”

A shiver ran through the older man, and Sherlock shuddered, feeling a heat pool in his groin, a familiar tingling spreading across his skin. Lestrade’s lips ghosted across Sherlock’s skin, met his lips, his eyes, his nose. “Yes,” he murmured in reply. Sherlock pulled Lestrade down, against him, warm body against warm body, and just held him.

Safety and security. Warmth and love. All the things that Sherlock thought he would never know. Never get a chance to have, to feel, to touch. But things had changed. For once in his lifetime - he was grateful.


End file.
